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One Step from Midnight
The air all around sat heavy with the ever present cold spun by the tunnel winds as they wound their way through the caverns and silent crevasses. Here and there the tunnels winds would pull and catch at anything it could find purchase upon, like an invisible hand grasping and clawing to drag whatever fell into its clutches into the winds and down into the darkness below. The groaning of metal mixed with the rushing rasp as the winds buffeted against the side of every ship, radio masts and antennas being pulled and slammed against the superstructure just as crew on deck where crushed up against railings and hatch ways as they clambered across their vessels. Putting his mug back down on the tarnished surface of the LADAR control console he knew for sure right now he was very much glad to be inside right now as the tunnels ever present voice impacted against the portholes, the bridges main view port whining as the winds attempted to claw its way in through every little crack in the sealant that it could find. Watching for a moment he could make out a rigger crew in full tunnel gear repairing the base of one mast, the flickering sparks from their welding torch being thrown behind them as they worked, leaving a stream trail of flickering lights to fall over the side of the ship and down into the cold below like tiny flares of light. “Doubly glad I’m not out there” he mused as he clicked his neck and stretched, failing to supress a yawn as he adjusted himself in his seat. “Getting bored are we?” an amused voice wafted in from over his right shoulder causing him to turn as a figure appeared leaning against the LADAR station partition, “Tired more like” Stoker replied as he picked up his mug of half cold caffeine and took another swig as the figure smirked and nodded. Popping themselves down at the seat behind him the ships other LADAR operator flicked a number of switches and the pail green glow of the sweep screen filled the room alongside Stoker's own, “Thought you weren’t on for another hour anyway Vess?” Stoker asked as he put the mug down on to the concentric rings of old caffeine marks. “Thought I’d come up and keep you company, plus want to check the gain on a few things” Vess replied with a smile as she glanced round at Stoker. The two couldn’t have been more different Stoker smirked, where he was balding, much too heavy and squat, fuelled by far too much bad caffeine whilst Vess was tall lithe and agile; youthful and bright compared to his Stubborn aged ways. Two sides of a credit in difference the ships pilot would quip about the pair, but you’d be hard pressed to find a better pair of LADAR operators in the black coats Stoker knew, they worked well together for the last year since Vess had joined the ships crew and proved their worth as a team. The fact Vess was up an hour early double checking radio transmissions and channel clarity wasn’t something out of the usual, she was notorious amongst the crew for being well awake and busying herself for a good while before even the captain had rolled out of their hammock. Except this time with the tunnel winds raging and their ship being on picket duty at the entrance way to the very tunnel that corsairs had been sent packing a few short days ago Vess being up an hour early meant she was likely feeling twitchy about something, and twitchy was never good in Stoker’s experience. Leaving her to it for a short while Stoker began to methodically go over his own sensors, flicking through high and low band before test pulsing his systems at intermittent ranges, checking for echo back and counting the time lag for hard bounce backs from the tunnel walls. He scopes remained silent as the pale green screens fizzled and pulsed a steady input for background faints, the central proximity scans reporting steadily their position with the hard contacts behind and above them being the rest of the armada. Making a few adjustments over to the stack of systems to his left Stoker spent the next half an hour running through each radio channel and getting ping confirmations from each ship and double checking IFF transponder signals before he finally glanced round at Vess. He knew she’d likely have already double checked the very same systems and quicker than him but the double redundancy the pair brought as he’d heard one learned raider call it; what ever redundancy was part of his mind wondered, had worked seriously in their favour before now. “Scopes clean on my end twitchy” he spoke causing Vess’s head to pop up from her own console screen “Hmmmmm” she responded, engrossed in her sensors as Stoker got up and took the couple of steps over to his counter parts control station. For some reason Vess had the transponder filter interconnected with the high band transmission sensors, glancing over the console Stoker spotted that Vess was running a long range scan with all the sensors committed to filtering out interference as she listened intently to the audio feedback only. “Sensors ghosting?” Stoker taped Vess on the shoulder and signed to her as she looked round. She nodded and signed back as she listened “Long range ping, two signals, repetition, followed by one signal” Stoker nodded and grabbed the spare set of audio head phones, listening to the pulsing signal himself. Adjusting a couple of dials he filtered the signal further until he could just about pick out a rhythm to the signal, something familiar pulled at him as he listened until an old memory from his youth kicked in causing him to tear the head phones off and dash over his console, knocking the mug of stale cold caffeine flying as he raced to find the audio file he was looking for. After a moment he found it as Vess looked round at her sudden manic ship mate, “You know something Old bones?” She quipped puzzled “Old tale young blood” the old rigger grinned as he flicked a switch and the recording of an ancient alert began to play “Emergency shelter directive enacted, all workers to assembly areas for evacuation case 442 Gamma, repeat case 442 Gamma, Response teams to action stations, response teams to action stations”. “The heck is this?” Vess raised an eyebrow, “Old old warning that birthed us and them what attacked us way back when” Stoker smirked, proud of his memory for remember the old tale. Flicking another switch he showed Vess the audio files comparison as the mystery signal matched up with the old recording. “Means someone using way back when gear Is playing an old warning to wake something up to respond to someone poking them” “But that leaves only one thing” Vess added “Yeah” Stoker nodded having the same thought “those ships from the surface squadron are gonna have a hard time”... Military Campaign Progress For as long as humanity has trod across the plains of its chosen home, from era to era and across every culture there have been defining moments born from simple courage that transcend everything else. These simple acts oft as not come to help lay the foundation of moments that will inspiration generations to come and be pointed to as a nations greatest moment, born aloft by the actions of a but a simple few. Equally there have been times throughout humanities evolution as a species that has seen small seeds of doubt come to be the ruin of all that it touches, great empires collapsing in from a simple lack of decision at one key point, or one singular figure making a single mistimed step and bringing down a millennia of history with them to be forgotten by time itself for but a few shards which remain standing. Here human courage and doubt sing their own songs in accompaniment to the tales of human history, each advancement of mankind bring a new verse between a vice like grip between the two as each pulls at the hearts of every member of humanity, from the courage of the first cave dwellers to venture into the night, the first acts of true valour as a courageous band of young warriors fought for their home to the desperate defence of an island nation by its soldiers of the skies, as the last bastion of a free world in an overrun and tyrannically oppressed continent. Here doubt has clung to these tales as a test to those willing to take that step forward, do they have they strength to press forward. Their own cries of yes stepping humanity as a whole further down the path of history’s tapestry of time, first through the terrible wars that marked the 20th and 21st century into the stars and outwards through the first real grasp into the void, onwards still to the very limits of their home as those filled with doubt called to slow or stop and further yet into the wider great void that is the universe. For the Raven Privateers as a whole this courage and doubt follows them where ever they may go, as closely bound to them as their own shadow as a people that live and die on the strength of their courage or the depths of their doubts. From their very inception as a unified people it took the courage of a few to put their trust in others to calm a storm and lay a foundation that would serve to create a peace which has lasted for 3 centuries. There were those who doubted it would last and viewed it all with scepticism that would eventually have the personal courage to admit they were wrong and fully commit to the new life the first privateers were building together, but at the same time there were those whose doubts festered and deepened that would become a dark parody to the privateers and stick to the ways they claimed had truly saved them. Courage over coming doubt is a common children's tale amongst the privateers that all have heard and all look to sing in their own way as their tales grow with each passing day. For the raiders and riggers both these simple songs sung in taverns and tales told over ancient tables form the inspiration that helps to shepherd their own doubts as they set out for the first time into the gloom of the tunnels beyond, filling their hearts with courage from by gone days that lift the spirits and cast what doubts remaining overboard to where they belong. Still sometimes for all its misgivings and internal brooding It can cause doubt has its place when the fog of war descends on a people, reminding them when to take that courageous step forward but also to be wary and step back from the fist coming out of the dark that would have otherwise broken their jaw. The first days of the season would pass by the majority of the Black coats and the surviving members of Drogba’s house to the sound of welding torches, the groans of the injured and the general background rumbling of thousands of voices as the fleet began to carry out repairs across every ship and the finally relieved port itself. Some vessels would require only a few minor repairs to armour panelling or blown circuits that would be carried out rapidly, so leaving the ships to return to their main duties amongst the wider armada. Other ships however would need extensive repairs as they in a few cases as old damage began to rear its head from the repairs carried out in the previous season, the temporary patches on some vessels finally giving out as the grav plating supporting them began to splutter and spark. These crews would be the first to step foot into drogba’s house proper as they settled down onto the sole remaining docking arm, a handful of port militia with freshly bound wounds seeing them in and helping to clear berths as the crews disembarked, repair crews trailing welding torch cables behind them as old cradle arms swung into place with screeches of ancient metal, the sucking snap click of their own magnetic clamps locking signalling those docked ships to cut their own power as they rested on their cradles. Come the end of the first full week the black coats as a whole would have a far better picture of what had happened to the besieged port as small bands ventured into the port on the few speculative hours of R&R they could wrangle from their ship captains. Truculent, foul tempered and suspicious as anything the port siders of Drogba’s house more than lived up to their reputation for stubbornness some told their ship mates upon returning, the past 9 months had pushed the port to its literal edge. Pretty much ever part of the port bore some kind of serious damage to its structure and weapon impacts riddled the walls of every building, here and there the defensive barriers the port militias had raised spoke of several repeated attempted storming by the corsairs of the port and the bloody fighting that had sent them packing back into the cold winds of the tunnels. What civilians couldn’t fight had been brought further into the port to the most secure point in the old storage silos, the reinforced buildings having been designed to contain tetracite detonations sheltering those inside from those exact impacts just from the outside instead. Despite this revelation of sorts of just how close Drogba’s had been to falling come the fourth day of the following week the armada find itself in a tired if jubilant mood as the devastating victory they had secured really began to settle in. Across the fleet each ship would hold their own small gatherings, some ships docking up together as their crews sung songs and told tales well into the night cycle as the entirety of the black coats let the nightmare of the past few seasons become lost in the background for a single night, good comrades and good friends having one night to celebrate their greatest achievement in recent memory. The Flight of the Red Morn sky as the tale would become known would do the rounds across every ship until even from Drogba’s the sound of the black coats merriment could be heard in full flow. The end of the second week would bring further developments for the armada as a pair of ships under escort by a trio of squat bull nosed hammerheads arrived at the rear perimeter picket. Challenged the leading hammerhead hoisted its neon colours, flashing the battle flag of the Old adamant to the cheer of the picket ships crew on deck as it sailed past with tis charges in tow. A series of signals were flashed across all black coat ships as the squadron coasted in the last few kilometres in, coming to a halt alongside the flag ship of the black coats, the Old adamant ships acting like a squad of bodyguards for the two accompanying vessels, even boarding one of the black coats own hammerheads when it passed to close by, the captain quickly scampering away after being punched square in the face for being too nosey by the angry rigger captain from the Old adamant vessel. Nothing more was heard until the following morning when a signal summoned all captains and flag staff to the flagship, aboard the two vessels had been the new rear admiral for the black coats and his fleet steward in tow, alongside a lieutenant from the Old adamant. The arrival and eventual meeting itself of the entirety of the black coats leaders would take all day but the news that spread across the fleet left a rippling wave of smirks and grins across every privateer face. Firstly the Old Adamant for the first time in generations was active once more at full strength and making its way down to reinforce the black coats at Drogba’s with all due haste, troop transports loaded up with angry and ready rigger marines, alongside port militia ready to get stuck in cracking heads whilst the black coats had a rest. Secondly and potentially more importantly the surface squadron had managed to secure a further source of food to support the continued deployment of the Old adamant with a cache of supplies unlocked from the agri-dome itself being dispatched to assist with repairs works at Drogba’s, Rigger teams were already going over Drogba’s old plans to get to work rebuilding the collapsed gun battery from scratch, alongside reinforcing the structure of the other with a new pair of secondary light defence blisters to extend the reach of Drogba’s guns. At this the entire room fills with cheers at the news, a much stronger Drogba’s would raised from the battered remains of the old and really give the corsairs and mutes something to worry about the common thought went round. The next week would see a flurry of activity amongst the Black coats as the armada settled itself into a defensive spread, picket vessels circling just inside the tunnel entrance that the corsairs had retreated down as flotillas formed roving patrols around the other entrances with the heavier vessels forming a central gunnery block. With the knowledge of the Old Adamants approach the black coats left room for them to slot into their pattern as they locked down the tunnels with a wary eye into the gloom beyond, if the corsairs did attempt to counter attack this season they’d be in for a nasty surprise. Port side the activity was no less busy as Drogba’s dragged itself and began to rebuild itself, the sparks of welding torches and arcing cutters filling every hour of the day and night cycle as the days passed by, a halo of lights seemed to almost perpetually hang over drogba’s as the scars it had worn were repairs, re-patched and sealed up by an endless set of repair teams. Come the fifth day of the final week of month another pair of vessels would arrive at the rear picket of the fleet and quickly be rushed through after a few short terse radio calls across the fleet. One was a small hauler clearly laden with cargo as the crates and stacks of glinting material on her deck showed, the other was a fair more menacing vessel entirely. Not much bigger than the hauler privateer crews clamoured on deck to get a view as it sailed silently by, its jet black paint work and vicious looking weapon blisters marking her out as a true warship even more so than the single logo it displayed on its armoured flank, the marking of the Arbiters. Circling the cargo vessel the arbiter vessel hung in overwatch as the cargo hauler docked up with the port and began to unload its cargo into the arms of waiting crew and repair teams, pallet trolleys creaked under the weight as they were rolled into the port proper for distributing, all whilst the unloading was watched by slowly rotating gun pods. Once the hauler was empty it kicked in its thrusters and boosted away without much fan fair and began to makes its way back towards the tunnel it had arrived from, the arbiter ‘gunship’ as the black coat crews that could get a good look at it dubbed it trailing behind in eerie silence, a few minutes later they were gone as mysteriously as they had arrived, disappearing back into the darkness once more. The handful of days that would see the see out the first month and welcome in the second of the season would pass by to collective sound that had become the hallmark of the previous as the various reconstruction projects worked away into each night. For the ships that had been anchored out at picket positions this steady rumble of noise would provide a welcome distraction as crews began to find ways to keep themselves entertained in the hours between watch shifts. Some would simply spend the time grabbing extra sleep or carrying out maintenance on their own gear, whilst others would spend the time up on deck watching the repairs of the closest dock arm slowly work its way down the length of it with each passing hour. By the end of the first week of the new month it would become almost a daily ritual with shifts coming on station and those heading for their hammocks to see how the repairs had progressed in passing conversation with shipmates. This pattern would repeat itself across the armada as a whole as each ship fully settled in for the season over the following couple of weeks, each crew digging out little projects when they had some downtime as each squadron began to rotate through positions, keeping the fighting edge they had developed over the last few seasons sharpened whilst giving crews some actual rest from the constant combat stations they had been at. During this time the physical damage on Drogba’s could be tracked by the eye as the supplies delivered by the arbiter escorted hauler began to quite clearly take effect in the repair works, first it was simply the docking arm that crews had been watching as part of their routine that was brought back into service with one cradle, followed a few hours later by another and then a pair on the opposite side. In record time the whole arm was operational once more, a few more optimistic black coats put it down to simple privateer ingenuity but others pointed out whatever those supplies where were more likely the reason as small bursts of radio comms flited back and forth. Apparently when the repair crews had cracked open the crates and stacks instead of the usual reconditioned parts or old salvage repairs they had been met with brand new materials with instructions had to break down certain parts to create specific parts or replicate new versions of old ones via the old nanite forge that sat at the heart of Drogba's house. How the arbiters knew that was there left more than a few confused faces but once it was reactivated the forge seemed to glow like it always did, but upon loading the materials the rigger teams noticed an immediate change as the glow changed and the machine seemed to emit a low steady purring sound with small queries flashing up on old cracked screens. Tentatively tapping a few options the machine began to print off the specified parts at a rapid pace, in a short time the third of Drogba's docking arms was back in use again as well as the shiny new parts glinted in their housings. More than a few songs would bounce round the taverns that night as the ports generators kicked back into full life as new cabling fed power out across the various taverns, homes and to the few remaining operational defence guns, Drogba's famous cannonade ringing out once more into the gloom, the embers of burning mutants filling the tunnel dark once again. Come the midst of the fourth day of the third week a number of the black coats flag staff who had been steadily watching the progress of repairs calculated that the material delivery had accelerated repairs exponentially, the docking arms alone would normally have taken an entire season by themselves and yet here they were functional once more in less than a month of actual work. By the end of the same week the reports flying back and forth across the air waves indicated this effect was happening everywhere, with the fresh beams and plating houses and shelters were being repaired rapidly with the parts saved on the crucial structures accelerating repairs in other places to boot from what the rigger team foreman were saying. The following week would see this small bit of news hop around the black coats with a number of cheers raised from ships, the rapid repair of one of the home ports and personal home to more than a few of the black coats crews raising morale across the armada as surely as anything could do. To top this off during the early hours of the months final day an all ships signal would cut across the airwaves, “All ships, all Ships stand by for reinforcement, the Old Adamant have arrived”. Sailing in formation the armoured bulk gun carriers of the Old adamant cruised in, gun decks open and ready with flotillas of assault ships and heavy troop transports following them in, more than a few black coats failed to supress a grin as the old mental image of the heavily armoured rigger that was the old adamant compared to the black coats raider popped up across crews. Climbing up the side of their ships or leaning from portholes the Black coats let fly with a roaring applause and flurry of jokes to the Old adamant, “Here at last” one black coat signalled an old friend amongst the old adamant “Only cause you ran off ahead as per usual” the signal came back, both captains waving to one another as they grinned chuckling. The final month of the season would see the full strength of the combined armada’s brought to bare as the old adamants fleet took up their own positions amongst the black coats, the great gun carriers positioning themselves like floating gun batteries covering every approach with a lethal potential crossfire whilst troop transports sailed into disgorge their cargo of rigger marines and port militias onto the docking arms of Drogba’s. Watching it from afar a number of more grizzled black coats had to admit the old adamants ground pounders where darn good as the first transport’s assault ramps slammed down and the first companies of old adamant troops poured down in close formation, engineering teams skittering forward under covering guns as the head of Drogba's surviving defenders greeted their counter part amongst the first company down. Grasping hands and at a nod the old adamant troops went to work, literally stacking their packs and slinging their weapons on their backs as they split up into teams and spread out to assist drogba’s repair crew, like a wave of industrious metallic ants. Come the evening the ports street lights would be back on and the front defences brought back to 50% capacity thanks to the additional man power. Out in the cavern specialist teams of troops would land down onto the cavern floor and make they way back up the rocky incline towards the collection of destroyed corsair ships, the slow but steady report of weapons fire sending back confirmations of mutant kills alongside putting down a few desperate survivors from the corsairs themselves who had managed to last the last couple of months hidden down on the cavern floor. It was a different kind of warfare than the black coats were used to but some couldn’t help but watch from their perches up in the air over the course of several days as a small number of the black coats own light ships circled above to provide ‘overhead support’ as the old adamant called it. The occasional thunder clap of a heavier gun would ring out after a short burst of radio comms and part of the corsair debris would detonate to the sound of confirmatory radio noises from old adamant troops on the cavern floor. By the middle of the second week this series of patrols as the old adamant called them would become the norm as units would rotate through cavern floor sweeps before being lifted back up to the waiting fleet above, for the black coats it was a chance to get some gunnery practice in but also a chance to put old skills in to use once as small squadrons began to rotate through their own series of practicing support runs with troop transports as they made their way down. Here the old adamant ships would stay in tight formation on the way down with the black coat ships providing fire support as the troops piled out into a perimeter on the cavern floor, spot lights creating a field of vision for them as they formed up and pressed onwards, the black coats light craft hovering over head with ready crews to put down firepower where needed when the radio call came. As the days rolled into the final week of the season one final piece of good news would finally reach the black coats in particular as the combined armada’s flag staff gathered for a morning briefing aboard the old adamants flag ship, a heavily armoured gun carrier dubbed ‘the Castellan’. Having made steady progress during the late evening of the last day of the month a series of reinforcing ships had managed to make their way down with replacements for the black coats, some new 300 privateers and their ships would be joining the fleet and where at that very moment forming up to their assigned squadrons and flotillas. “Fortunes favour the bold and it seems we’ve plenty of that today” one captain grinned... Summary: With the successive deployment of the ‘phage’ bomb in the previous season and the relief of Drogba’s house by the Black coats the armadas of the raven privateers have finally linked up with the arrival of the Old adamant on the frontlines. Alongside this with a series of specialist supplies delivered directly into the repair efforts at Drogba’s house the reconstruction efforts have been massively accelerated with the approach tunnels fully locked down for any sign of a corsair counter attack. Nothing has appeared however picket ships have detected transmissions coming from below that indicate something has been roused in response to something. Aside from this thanks to the lull in the fighting a set of reinforcements have managed to find their way down to the black coats, adding 300 to their number. (Note: Standing Strength of the Black coat armada is now at 2185/3000, standing strength of the corsair remaining fleet is unknown at this time.) The Fog of War With the positive developments in the war against the corsairs as well as in the agri-dome the people of the raven privateers have most definitely passed through the eye of the storm most can be heard to say throughout multiple taverns and speak easies in home-down. For the most part the slight increase in food rations is also a central talking point as most come to the conclusion that a new source must have been located somewhere for this to have happened, the health of the surface squadron is well drown in cheers and neat alcohol during the low eves over the course of the season as a slightly optimistic mood sweeps throughout the average civilians of the privateers. Amongst the more militarily minded the reversal in the combat situation for the armada’s becomes the most hotly debated topic of choice as the various port militias and independent ship crews shares tales and rumours about the goings on down in the lower tunnels and their connection to the actions on in the surface ruins. All this combines in almost every port to the sound of the privateers famous singing and jostling as new songs fill the air everywhere, even outside the admiralty. Inside the Admiralty however is a different story as the admirals take their seats around the old battered round table that marks the centre of the meeting room, here rather than the happy smiles or jubilant grins of the populace scowls and annoyed glances cross every face as the question still of how this could have happened in the first place bounces about once more, the admirals of the wreck and of kilo shouting themselves hoarse at one another as they argue for hours until the admiral for home down final loses his temper and puts a new hole in the ceiling with his side arm; adding another to the dozens already blown in the ceiling by their predecessors, alongside a flurry of words that makes even the admiral for Drogba's blush with their pointedness. Sitting down the two admirals resume their seats, sinking into the old fabric slightly as the admiral for home glares at them both, pulling a wad of papers out from a small file they have with them the admiral slaps the papers down alongside another slightly more burnt and smelling of weapons fire. The burnt one they tap as the report from the captain of the port militia in Drogba’s about everything they know, the other is from the surface squadron. At this each of the other admirals also pulls out their own file and begin to go over it, within a few minutes the clashing information descends into further arguments as each admiral seems to have been sent differing information that doesn’t match up. At this one admiral badgers the admiralty chief radio operator if there had been a problem with transcribing the surface squadrons report, they shake their head saying this was what had come with each file, They’d written it out and dispatched it under sealed orders from the rear admirals. At this the meeting descends yet further into arguments as the admiral for Drogba’s house and Home down both glance at one another with dawning understanding as to why but keeping their mouths shut. Bringing the meeting to an end the two remain as the other 3 leave, comparing their files the two old soldiers quietly discuss what they guess is an attempt at an information ruse to flush something out as both of their instincts kick in. “If its just use they’ve done this to then they reckon one of us is the leak” “Agreed, in which case one of the other 3 is liability at best or a traitor at worst” “Either way is bad old friend” “We sit on this and let the surface squadron play their next move then, but I want a ship ready to move on either of those 3 if we need too” Nodding the admiral for Drogba’s straightens up as the door leading out of the hall creaks slightly, glancing at one another the two admirals draw their weapons and head over, pulling the door open they find an empty hallway with but the sound of skittering feet echoing away. Summary: 1) With the repairs carried out thanks to the supplies from the surface squadron Drogba’s house should be back to full strength come the beginning of the next season, if the same is also carried out for Tink’s town as well both should be fully repaired by the end of next season. 2) With the corsairs retreat in the previous season the war has definitely swung in the privateers favour, however whatever gambit the surface squadron has tried to play has only partially succeeded, someone or something has been flushed out of hiding by a momentary error but who they are is unknown. Only the Admiral of Home-Down and Drogba’s house are clear of the implications and have set their own back up plans in motion, thought they seem to have figured the surface squadron plan and are attempting to support it where possible without further compromising it. 3) With the engagement last season proving so one-sided for the black coats they have been reinforced by the Old adamant in their defensive position. A number of vessels have launched their own forays into the tunnels into the catacombs, as such would the players of the characters “Prof”, “Kai”, “Stitches” & “Shrapnel” please report to GOD before time in for debrief. Back to Downtimes